The Marriage Rival

“Where the fuck is she then?”

“I don’t know… we kinda…” Cassandra trails off. “She left hours ago, okay?”

It takes mere seconds for the rage to spike again, rushing through my body like a wild beast. Her words pound in my ears, I need fucking answers, now.

“We kinda what?” I growl with widened eyes.

“We kinda… never mind.” She stops mid-sentence, followed by a downward gaze. “She loves you. For whatever reason, I have no clue. You win.”

I purse my lips, exasperated. “I win? This isn’t a competition. Do you know what you have done to our family?”

“I was in her life well before you,” she cries back, her emotions catching me off guard.

“Yeah, so explain to me how that ended?”

She shuffles uncomfortably. “I made a mistake, okay?”

I point my finger directly at her face. “You messed with the wrong person.”

“She n-needed me,” she sputters, momentarily beyond words. “You weren’t there for her. I was.”

“And I have to live with that everything fucking day.”

Staring into her eyes, my expression turns bitter. It stems from a never-ending dark void that consumes everything I do. I’m this close to losing my entire reason for living. If this is a competition, and her aim was to break me, then she’s succeeded.

I’m fucking broken without Presley.

I haven’t slept, nor have I eaten. I’m struggling to mask this pain any longer, unable to bury it into the depths of my soul and pretend everything will be fine. The pain has resurfaced, demanding attention. It’s a constant stab into the heart and mind, stinging with every breath I take.

I’m nothing without Presley by my side.

For better or for worse.

We are at our worse.

And somehow, someway, we need to find our way back to better.

I turn my back and walk to the door, stopping just shy of the entrance. “Clear out your desk by Monday,” I order, full of conviction. “Your services are no longer needed at Indie Press.”

I don’t care what it will cost me.

All the money in the world would be worth every cent spent as long as Presley is back in my arms.

I turn on my phone to see the tracker had been activated, and there she is, sitting in the middle of Times Square on the iconic red steps.

The cab driver can’t drive any slower. Demanding he stop, I throw some money at him and exit quickly. With road work, running toward Times Square will be quicker.

It’s just after six in the morning, the sunrise peeking over the tall buildings. There are people walking around, few and far between the normally over-populated area. I’ve lost track of all time, having been awake since the moment she told me she needed time to think.

In front of me are the infamous red steps and sitting in the middle is Presley.

My breath is caught in my throat.

I desperately want to touch her, make sure warm blood pumps through her veins, and her presence is real, not a fixation of my imagination.

I take my time walking toward her, watching the way she stares blankly at the space in front of her. She’s dressed in a denim jacket, a pair of sweats and sneakers, her hair loose against her back.

As I sit beside her, she doesn’t even flinch.